


rage of poseidon

by beansprout



Series: water and a flame [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mobster Edward, Underground Fighting Ring, mafioso Ezio, that mobster au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6861934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beansprout/pseuds/beansprout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezio was a grown man. A busy man. He was probably conducting his own business abroad, in some foreign European country. It still wouldn’t hurt to send a word, Edward reasoned. It wasn’t as if oversea texting rates were a concern to a man of his means! And yet, it’d been weeks since he’d last heard from Ezio.<br/>If Edward had known where Ezio had been, maybe he would spend less time sulking and feeling neglected, and a little more time punching faces and taking names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a few things:  
> 1\. I'm breaking this fic down and posting it smaller chapters to attract the attention I need to finish it. seriously guys, leave me a comment or even a kudos, it helps a lot  
> 2\. I haven't played Syndicate so Jacob's appearance is minimal. I CANNOT WAIT TO WRITE HIM, THOUGH  
> 3\. It appears my favorite method of naming fics is to put my media player on shuffle and look at song title until i find one that even only vaguely fits with the theme. such is the case here
> 
> that's all, enjoy!!

It’s really hot out here. 

Edward pouted, tapping his foot impatiently. He tried to lean back against his car, but immediately recoiled when he realized its surface was all covered in a thick layer of orange dust. Cursing, he tried to brush off his suit, which was subjected to much the same fate and starting to take on the appearance of a Dorito. Whose brilliant idea it was to conduct business in suits? It’d cost a fortune in dry cleaning alone, even if your underlings weren’t stupid enough to put a major warehouse in the middle of a desert. 

Well, probably the whole point of such “delocalization” was to avoid inspection. But the stupid bastard couldn’t possibly figure that Edward would miss a single rat with sticky fingers aboard his ship? Even Rackham noticed, and to get Rackham to notice anything beyond his bottle, that didn’t have leopard print on it, would be an achievement.

Edward continued to pout until a door banged open and a chair came sailing out. He whistled, providing background music as the broken piece of furniture drew a perfect arch in the air, before crashing into the sand and sending up a cloud of orange. “Right,” he pushed himself upright, bouncing happily on his feet and cracking his knuckles as he started on a light jog to the warehouse. “Let us join the fun—” 

Before he even finished that thought, Edward bumped into what could have been a very sturdy beam, but turned out to be Connor’s chest. He looked up and drew in a breath to whine, but Connor had tossed something at him, forcing him to catch and fumble with it. 

Since you’d want to know, Connor was a real spectacle to behold. His riding leather had held up better to the road than Edward’s suit: there was barely even a speck of orange on the supple black leather, worn soft with use but shiny with care. A couple strands of black hair had escaped the half ponytail and hung over his face, sticking to his skin in places with sweat. By the way, he was not sweating but _glowing_ – 210lbs of muscles (and other things, obviously) warmed by the sun and adrenaline. A bead had escaped from the braid hanging down his left temple, and Edward had half a mind to make the one who’d tore it out look for it – with their tongue or something. But he was perfectly sure Connor would be able to exact just revenge on his own, if the way he was _looming_ with an axe in hands was any indication.

“Wait here,” Connor intoned, pointing down at the ground for emphasis. He didn’t even let Edward reply, just turned his back and went back into the warehouse. There was the rattling noise of the axe being shoved (and before you even think it, no, not like that, you sick bastard) through the door handles to bar them. And then the only noises that followed were the wet thuds of fists hitting flesh, with the occasional crack of bones breaking. There was a distinct lack of screaming, which only attested to Connor’s expertise.

Resuming his pouting in earnest, Edward looked down at the thing Connor had tossed him. It was a heavy box of smooth varnished wood, on the surface of which shone a crest and a brand name etched in golden letters. Edward flipped open the latch to find a lining of deep purple velvet, cushioning a crystal bottle of amber-colored liquid. Cuban rum, the most expensive money could buy. Of course it would be one of the first things a rat with sticky fingers would lift. Connor had always had good eyes. Edward sure hadn’t sired him, but he could call Connor son and meant it with all of his cold, dead criminal heart. The kid sure was too good for the wretched bastard who had run away even before he knew he had a son. 

Well, since he was here for a while… Edward took out the bottle and twisted open the cap, taking a deep draught. There really was no reason to be in a bad mood. The sun was shining; business was being taken care of, artfully, by his wonderful godson. He had in his hand high quality liquor that probably cost its weight in gold; it went down with a smooth fire that slowly spread in his veins. And even if they were a long way from shores, when he toed of his shoes he could immediately feel the familiar, comforting sensation of warm sand running between his toes. 

Even with all that, he still couldn’t stop himself being restless.

Ezio was a grown man. A busy man. He was probably conducting his own business abroad, in some foreign European country. Hadn’t Ezio told him that he didn’t even have time to eat, on such trips? Surviving on airplane meals and room service, working on his computer during transit? It still wouldn’t hurt to send a word, Edward reasoned. It wasn’t as if oversea texting rates were a concern to a man of his means! And yet, it’d been weeks since he’d last heard from Ezio. Did his lover really enjoy playing the diplomat with politicians and extorting information from stockbrokers so much, he couldn’t spare a thought for Edward?

He was half way through the bottle when his phone rang. Edward stared at the unknown number before picking up. “Who the fuck is this?” He started blandly, quite honestly perplexed, not drunk enough to completely not care. After all, one does not simply make a casual call to the lord of the underground, not when he doesn’t know you. An unknown number call to his phone was simply unheard of. 

“Master Kenway!” said the voice from the other side of the line, and Edward froze a beat before groaning. There was something even worse than not knowing who was calling, and it was this. He _did_ know this guy, but not as much as he would’ve liked to. 

To be fair, nobody knew much more than Edward, though he was still unclear on whether that was worrying or reassuring. The facts they possessed were few: Jacob and Evie Frye were twins, and the devilish pair had made their appearances perhaps three months back. Rumor has it that they held some prestigious rank over the criminal element in London. What brought them over to the US, however, one could only guess. To hear them tell it, they’d only come for a vacation, and so far, the only sightseeing they’d done was a complete tour of Edward’s fighting rings. 

They were unstoppable, taking turns to plow through the most skilled as well as the most unsavory of his fighters like they had the consistency of slightly damp crackers. Out of curiosity, Edward had met each of them in the cage. He’d won both times, of course, but it was a close thing against Evie Frye. He had the distinct impression that she’d only let him win because it simply didn’t do to take your host down a peg for everyone to see. 

Edward had never been a master of discretion, but he knew how to appreciate subtlety when it was offered to him. He knew that one day she’d want something from him, and just for today’s consideration he already knew he’d say yes to whatever she asked.

“Jacob,” Edward deadpanned. He didn’t even bother asking how he got this number. “What do you want, you shitbird?”

“That me, innit?” Jacob returned cheerfully. Edward had heard him speak before; his accent wasn’t nearly that prominent when he spoke to Americans. But he’d take one look at Edward and then his accent could be cut with a knife. Curiously, Edward’s own speech would take on some color, too. It was as if they were each try to out-accent each other. “Why did you assume I wanted something? Might be you’d want something from me.”

Edward couldn’t think of a single thing he could want from this wildcard. Coming from him, it was a pretty serious accusation. “Oh yea? Enlighten me, what could that be?”

Jacob replied in the cheerful tone of a maniac who was only too happy to be in troubles. “I dunno, but you might be interested in the whereabouts of your paramour, maybe?” He paused, and Edward caught just then, in the background, the loud and long boo of a crowd. He knew that kind of noises; he knew where they took place. Just what the hell was going on? Jacob whistled under his breath. “Damn, that must have hurt.”

Edward felt like his blood had ran cold in one second flat. “Listen here, you little brat,” he started, “I don’t know what you want, but if you touched a single hair on his head—”

“What?” Jacob asked, obviously distracted. “Oh, no, this isn’t that kind of call, Master Kenway.”

“Then what kind of call is this?” he snarled. He vaguely registered Connor coming out of the warehouse and frowning at him, but his mind was on other things. If anything, the scent of blood only got him more worked up. “You have Ezio, haven’t you?”

“No I don’t,” Jacob answered, sounding a little, and quite honestly, puzzled. “You do, actually.”

There were the sounds of the phone changing hands. Might as well, because Edward thought he was slowly losing his mind. “Mr. Kenway,” said the voice, in the feminine but resolute tone of Evie Frye. “I’m afraid one of Mr. Auditore’s enemies caught hold of him and put him in one of your fighting rings as revenge.”

A number of mental images came to Edward then, none of which good. The universe had to choose this moment to have a sense of humor. It took a lot of control to bite out, “Which?” as he climbed into the car, gesturing for Connor to follow.

There was a pause during which Evie Frye considered the answer. “The Tiger Cage.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know any more you guys... I donno ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I started this out because of IDEAS but i didn't actually know where I was going... and then I got busy writing a goddamn report (and hating every word of it) so I kind of lost interest. i tried to make myself finish but the end is kinda pointless, so I apologize if you find this disappointing  
> if you have idea to this verse, pls throw them at me, I do still love it and wanna continue but i just don't have any sparks left...  
> my tumblr is mirisprouts, as always

If you wanted to get bloody revenge, the Tiger Cage was the place to dump your worst enemy. 

The other fighting rings with their mesh metals were mere chicken coops compared to the Tiger Cage. It was a literal metal cube sunk into a reinforced floor of concrete. The only entrance/exit was a trap door with thick, fat metal bars. Fights were recorded from every award-winning angles through hidden cameras set in the concrete. The videos were then broadcasted live to gigantic TV screens that the audience stared and screamed at, frenzied with the consuming high of sustained bloodshed. 

The cage itself was little more than twelve feet each side, just enough space for a man to maneuver, but not enough to evade a fight in any way. In the Tiger Cage, the fighting doesn’t stop. Not for anyone, not even for Edward. The day’s festivities ended only when they ran out of fighters, and the last man standing would be scooped up to be sent into the Cage the next day, again and again, until he too fell and a new champion emerged.

As Connor put his foot to the floor, cutting a straight, burning line through the desert, Edward held his phone as if it was his Davy Jones’ chest, with his heart still beating in it. He’d managed to stream the broadcast from the ring, and if by now he knew the whereabouts of a certain wayward lover, it didn’t make him feel even a bit reassured.

Ezio was, against all odds, still standing. It was even more impressive, considering the number of bodies strewn across the floor, even piling up in the corners of the cage. The bodies weren’t cleared until the end of the fight, the obstacles making it even harder to navigate the narrow space. Ezio was stripped down to his waist as per the tradition of the ring, his torso bare to display a number of bruises that had started to darken. There was blood, obviously – those hyenas wouldn’t have wasted any time in making him bleed – but as far as Edward could tell, nothing really serious. Two bracers were strapped to his forearms. Each of them must have been earned after Ezio emerged victorious from a fight; indeed, the only demonstration of goodwill the Tiger Cage’s audience allowed its favorites was the right to pick a weapon after a day of fighting. The one on Ezio’s right arm had the blade Edward was familiar with, the other ended in a hook. 

As he watched the grainy, jerky footage of Ezio dodging, stabbing, hacking at his opponents, while using the bars of the cage to his advantage, Edward growled into Connor’s phone, strapped safely on the holder on the dashboard. “How the hell did this happen? It’s been three days. How have you not noticed this?”

Haytham’s voice came out tinny from the phone’s speakers due to poor connection. “You’d note, father, that I have other duties to attend to, other than micromanage every single one of your fighting rings.” A pause. “Regardless, the situation is being taken care of.”

“Make it stop,” Edward ordered. “Take down that place, for all I care. I don’t fucking need it.”

“I thought you’d resort to extreme measures,” Haytham sighed. “I’d already taken matters into hands. The bomb squad is on its way.”

He’d started out so confidently and surely, that Edward was just going to take his words for it and believe that everything would be taken care of. Then he listened a little more closely and realized what Haytham had just said. “Wait, what? Who said anything about a bomb?”

“You did, father.” The patient tone in Haytham’s voice made Edward want to throttle him. “You said to take down that place. Well, that’s how I’m going to do it.”

*

As much as he hated to hand it to Haytham, it was the cleanest solution to the situation that they had. For instance, they didn’t have to interfere with the fighting, violating the rules that they had set themselves for the Tiger Cage. An apparent attack would be a hit to the Kenway’s reputation, sure, but it was still better than admitting relations and favoritism towards the Auditore family. More importantly, in the reinforced bunker dug into the ground, Ezio was as safe as he could be from the collapsing building. 

That being said, it still took hours to dig him out from under the rubbles. The audience had all been evacuated. Even as the building came down, it seemed Ezio had no difficulty eliminating his opponents. At least – Edward thought, a little hysterically, as part of the ceiling was being lifted out of the way – at least he had plenty of fresh meat down there to sustain him, if it came to that, if the rescue took too long. 

It didn’t come to that, obviously. The rubbles were cleared, and Haytham provided him with a key of the Cage. Edward opened the metal trap door, and Ezio climbed out. In the cage, he was safe from falling masonry, fire, or the trampling of a panicked crowd. He was bruised and cut up to hell, dehydrated and weak from hunger now that the adrenaline surge had faded out. But he was mostly in one piece, with no grave injury to speak of, and Edward could almost explode with gratitude.

But then he attempted to take a step, tripped on the rubble, fell on his face, and broke his silly wrist.

*

Edward had had the chance to make acquaintance with Malik Al-Sayf, on his crossing from Syria to the States. Back then, the recent loss of his wife and one of his children had made him a sullen man, dark and sober, avoidant of company, wearing his grief and his injury like armor against the outside world. He was glad that, after being in the tender care of Altair ibn La’Ahad, he had surpassed his grief and blossomed into his full potential: a man with a violent anger that propelled him in everything he did.

La Volpe had come in contact, instructing Edward to bring Ezio to his estate at the country side – a veritable fortress baptized “Monteriggioni” after the Auditore’s home region in Italy, apparently. He’d reassured Edward that there would be medical detail at the ready. Malik Al-Sayf _was_ medical detail. Edward had never seen a one-armed man wield so many tools with such efficiency, and this while letting out a steady stream of insults in mixed languages about every single person whose presence offended him. Malik had very quickly turned the fearsome mysterious assassin Altair into his errand boy, and Edward would be damned if the man wasn’t glowing with pride as a puppy sent to fetch.

By the time he was done, everyone there had gone through a proper verbal lashing, especially Ezio. La Volpe, at least, had the delicacy to call for a meeting to discuss their failings elsewhere. It was the first time in days Edward got to spend time in private with Ezio, and he nodded to La Volpe with much gratitude. He’d been leaning against the wall, watching, not wanting to get in the way, and now he moved to the side of the bed as Ezio blinked dazedly up at the ceiling.

“You, love, are drugged up to the gills,” he observed, to which Ezio agreed with a soft sniffle. His wounds were bandaged up and his broken wrist wrapped in a splint, and the white of the bandages somehow made the injuries less scary. Edward sat down, gently, so the mattress wouldn’t dip so suddenly. “You’re lucky, you know. If you’d fallen wrong you would’ve cut your own wrist with your blade.” He took Ezio’s hand and rested it on his lap. “I maintain that wrist blades are a stupid idea.” 

“Saved my lousy life,” Ezio huffed, tentatively curling his fingers into Edward’s. Apparently, it pulled on something it shouldn’t have, because Ezio quit it right away. “How d’ya hear?”

It said a lot about the state he was in, that his immaculate speech was so slurred and mumbled. Edward squeezed his fingers as hard as he dared, which was not very hard. “From Evie Frye, of all people.” Ezio had teased Edward mercilessly about the black eye she had given him. “Apparently, the dunces I paid to guard the rings have shit for eyes. Had. You betcha I sacked their asses.”

“Didn’t even know it was one of yours,” Ezio muttered, picking at the sheet. “Wasn’t the rescue a bit dramatic?”

“All of them are mine, darlin’.” Edward wanted to tell Ezio he’d burn his entire empire to the ground if it was for him, but somehow it didn’t seem like something mob bosses should say to each other. Thankfully, he had the perfect excuse, as with everything. “Haytham’s idea.” Reaching up, he brushed Ezio’s hair from his face. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Bait,” the Italian mumbled, obviously ashamed of his carelessness. “Intel to share, come alone… You know the drill. 

Edward’s hand tightened in Ezio’s hair. The Italian drew in a breath, letting his eyes flutter shut. The flush on his cheeks made Edward realize he might be enjoying this more than Edward had meant to, so he released his grip. “Hey, none of that,” he snapped. “That was careless of you. Why?”

Disappointed, Ezio cracked an eye open. Edward tried to be stern in the face of his pout. “What,” drawled Ezio. “You’re not gonna scold me?”

Edward tried to hide the thrill that suggestion sent down his spine. “Okay, for one, I know I’m kind of a horndog, but I know when you’re not serious and I know it’s now. Drugged up to the gills, as I told you. And second, I know there’s a time, and this is really not the time.” He gave Ezio a sideway look. “You’re not seducing your way out of this, mister. So what was it about?”

Ezio just lied there for a moment, eyes glazed over, lips still pouted. Edward thought he was still thinking of a way to weasel out of this, but then realized he was just still processing the words. “Okay,” Ezio said, when he had puzzled the sentences out to make sense. “They said they had something about my father. Who killed him.” His hands tightened again on the sheet, and this time, he gave no heeds to his injuries. “Why.”

“Oh, honey.” Edward sighed. “Next time, when something like that happens, you text me.” 

“Okay.” Ezio wriggled. “Now are you gonna scold me?”

That got Edward to smile, despite of himself. “You know what? Maybe I will, later.”


End file.
